It’s only been about half a year we’ve lived without a dog. A half year out of pretty much my whole life. Yet in that half a year it seems I have forgotten about every … let’s just call it “eccentricity” … that makes a dog a dog.
I wrote something down the other day: “the difference between eccentric and crazy is measured in millimeters.” And it certainly applies here.
How have I forgotten all of these things? That dogs are unique, strange, complicated and totally quirky animals.
That there are so many great mysteries of the dog world — most of which I’m slowly rediscovering and desperately trying to understand again … not to mention come to grips with. Mysteries like these:
Why is it in a house full of hardwood floors — in fact, there’s only one rug right now — a dog will travel great distances, through every room, over barbed wire fences, across counties, rivers, equators — even a mountain range! — just to get to a rug if she feels the urge to throw up. It’s like a pilgrimage. A great calling. “Come to the Holy Land where it’s soft on your feet and you can take a nap afterward.”
It causes phone calls from wives that sound like scripts from a war movie: “I tried to stop it. I saw it coming. Heard the rumbling. In fact, we locked eyes and she let me into her soul — her SOUL! I saw everything. That it was coming and that I needed to move her. But with nails like … well … nails, she dug into the rug and … oh, it was just horrible.
Leaves and grass and I think part of a bike tire. Anyway, I need you to go to the store and get a flamethrower.” Why when a dog scratches her ear does it sounds like a cross between a pig, a baby crying and a slightly asthmatic demon?
Have you heard these sounds? Awful, horrific, terrifying sounds. Not at all painful. If translated, it would probably resemble an old, cranky man cussing. Listen carefully next time: “Damn blarmy blaggin’ frag-a-lackin jambalaya …”
And they only do it in the middle of the night, causing you to jerk up in bed trembling. Screaming about how you have to go Google “exorcist.” Then you see it’s just a little mongrel with a foot buried deep in her ear canal and a look on her face that says, “What’s your problem? I’ve got an itch!”
Why is it a dog won’t scratch all day — not a single scratch! — but come 5 in the morning, it’s like she’s been attacked by ants and has to go to town? Five in the morning!
And why is it the only dog sound worse than scratching an ear is licking their hindquarters and (I HATE this word) crotch? If you have a dog, you know what I’m referring to. That blood-curdling slurping, sucking, sloshing sound. It’s like a drunk elephant licking a popsicle. And somehow that back leg pit has a way of amplifying the sound. At 5 in the morning you have to bury your head under the pillow and bang on it with your fist to drown it out.
Again the dog sits there on the floor staring at you with a look on her face that says, “Dude, you have GOT to relax! Maybe you need more rest.”
Why can they be so good, so trustable and dare I say “pure” that you’re willing to give them the keys to the car, share passwords to the retirement accounts, and even leave packages of ground beef sitting on the edge of a kitchen counter? What! And then why are we surprised when we come back and find what looks like a shark bite on a corner and a dog with a chunk of Styrofoam stuck to her head.
Why is it all worth it at the end of the day when you get that dog greeting — that I’m so excited to see you I just have to pee all over the place greeting that only a dog could give? And why, oh why, does it always have to be right there — right there! — on the only rug in the house?